


The Game

by NerdyWolfy



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Gen, More characters to be added as the series goes along, No Romance, Spoilers my dudes, Stiles is the main protagonist, and that’s fine, but i don’t know as romance or orientation isn’t the main focus, but this is my depiction of him, i will try to actually add that in the story, if you saw the update pages then you know that no one is straight, you may either like my version of Stiles or you don’t
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-12
Updated: 2020-07-03
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:07:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24154033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NerdyWolfy/pseuds/NerdyWolfy
Summary: Stiles, a young teenager, thought he was smart. He thought he was invincible against all odds thrown his way. He was intelligent, perceptive, witty, and above all; Stiles. In actuality when it came down to nitty gritty he was gullible, emotional, and tactless. He wasn’t ready for the tasks at hand, as he was a bull in a china shop. He wasn’t ready for the manipulation, lies, and deceit that came with The Game.
Kudos: 1





	1. I

The sky was blue.

It wasn’t unusual to see that. Everyone can look up and say what colour the sky is because they were taught that in kindergarten. Unless they were colourblind; then the world is grey. Stiles, at one point, thought it was sad that colourblind children couldn’t see the same way he did. All the different shades of blue in the daytime sky, or the sun setting into dark; that perfect shading of yellow to pink to blue. He remembers a friend, one who he met online a few forgotten summers ago, that taught him the beauty of seeing the world in grey.

“You know how when you see the colour red, you’re filled with some type of emotion?”

Stiles had never pondered the question. He knew there were certain aspects to different colours that meant different things. Red sometimes meant rage and hatred, but could also mean love and passion. There are sayings with the word red but doesn’t exactly include the word ‘red.’ Road rage, or blind rage, Stiles would imagine the colour red. But when paired with another colour, like pink, he thinks of love and passion.

Stiles sat up in his chair, killing the zombie, right in the face, in his hyper-realistic game that his dad was skeptical in getting in the first place. Red blood splattered across the screen, but quickly faded away. “Yeah, most of the time it’s to signify you’re angry.”

“And with blue; you’re sad?”

Blue was a colour Stiles had heard a lot about. A few words came to mind; sadness, depression, fear. Blue, along with black, was most often used to describe a character who was depressed. ‘She was feeling blue’ is something that comes across his mind. Although in the public eye blue is seen as a sad colour, it also happened to be Stiles’ favourite one. To him he knew of the darker side of blue, but to him it didn’t matter. His room was painted a shade of blue, more of a greyish-blue, and his mouse was even blue.

“Well, as an able-seeing person you know what to expect. You see red, someone is angry, or yellow then someone is happy. To us we don’t see those. I’m not sure if this is the right word, but, a fresh start of sorts.”

“Slate.” Stiles tells him. “Like a plate. I mean, it’s not really a plate, it rhymes with it. Like wiping a plate clean; just replace the word with slate.”

His friend laughed through the microphone on the other end. “Fresh _slate_ ,” Stiles hummed in approval, “We have no idea what to expect, except when it’s dark and gloomy or white and pure. You could say the grass is green and say, ‘what pretty weather we’re having’ and I’d be seeing it all in 1950’s black-and-white.

You know what to feel. I don’t.”

Those words have stuck true to him to this day.

The sky was blue, and Stiles wasn’t feeling a damn thing. There were clouds, but they were all bunched together like unfolded clothes in a clothes drawer. Unkept, spread out, and a hint of stains that didn’t fully go away in the wash. They were all put there in that specific spot because that’s where they belong. Some days there were no stains, sometimes a lot (more than Stiles would like to admit; he’s bad at laundry), and on rare occasions there were none. Out of every California county, Beacon Hills had to be the one that always has a hint of stains that’ll bite him in the ass later.

“Is the sky falling or something?” Stiles found an arm around his shoulders and a body glued to his.

Scott was that body glued to Stiles. Even if he tried _Goof Off!_ or some online trick to unglue the glue he’d still be stuck with his best friend. Through thick and thin, rose buses, and even a hellstorm. they’d always make it out together. The way they’d go through and come out would always be different. Either going in like they’re ready for senior pictures or they go in looking like Lydia drug them through the mud because they messed up her Prada shoes.

Scott, although his best friend, did have his moments where he wasn’t a desirable human being. Stiles was, more or less, his rock. Well, Scott’s friends are, but without Stiles they’d all be motherless, without a guiding hand and floundering around. Maybe he doesn’t give them enough credit, but that’s a topic for later. With his deep seeded doubt Scott can become dependent. Sometimes apologizing too much or asking if he was doing anything right.

Stiles knew that Scott was always like that, but he couldn’t help but get annoyed every once in a while.

”Chicken Little is a _coward_ ,” Stiles retorts, “I am not Chicken Little.”

Scott laughed, covering his mouth with his forearm, and coughed. “Why are you attacking a fictional character? Chicken Little is fine.”

“Chicken Little is a coward,” Stiles repeats, “change my mind.”

“How so?”

For one, Chicken Little is a chicken. Chickens, despite their ruffled feathers and fast flappy steps like penguins, run away at the slightest bit of trouble. Squawking and screaming at the top of their heads so that more can come as back up. Running like a chicken without its head, pun intended in some way. One can never act alone without the acceptance of back up. It's like it knows it can’t win the fight.

Two, he is little. Like a bunch of tiny newborn babies, Chicken Little is small. Chicken Little has the strength of a peanut, or an anorexic lion, and the athletic skill of freshman Stiles. No stamina, no strength, and tiny. Imagine having a bunch of toddlers running his way; Stiles is backed up to the brick wall behind him with no way of escape. He could A, run at them full speed and jump over them like an Olympic runner; or B, kick them. He doesn’t codone kicking or hitting a child, so he’d go with the first option.

But the size of the dog isn’t what matters; it’s the fight in the dog.

Stiles had thought it out too much. “No reason.”

“Is it because you secretly like Chicken Little?”

Yes. Chicken Little was one of his favorite movies when he was a kid. “No. I hate him. Are you sick?”

“Slight scratch in my throat,” Scott says with no concern, “not like it matters.”

“Yes it does! You might be sick and you’re not resting!”

Stiles didn’t have to worry. With Scott’s werewolf abilities his sickness will be slight and will end before the day is over. If not sick then his werewolf abilities would combat the sickness and the only thing Scott would feel are minor inconveniences. Besides, if his mom let him come to school today she knew he wouldn’t spread the disease. 

“I’ll be fine,” Scott says in a way that is supposed to sooth Stiles’ nerves and it does. “Are you taking your Adderall?”

He missed last night, but it's not like he’d ever admit that. “Yes.”

After the entrance started becoming less and less filled Scott and Stiles silently agreed it was time to go in. The halls were still packed and teachers waited silently outside their doors. Some had artificial smiles as students passed by, but some had real smiles. Those, with the organic and true smiles, were the ones Stiles wanted and waved to genuinely. He was taught more by them than he was by his official teachers; they cared about him.

It was nice to know teachers, and adults, like you and treat you with respect. He could name more than a few instances where adults would turn their nose and ignore him. They treated him as if he was less and that they never went through the infamous teenage years. Now Stiles wasn’t looking for someone to kiss his feet and call him ‘King.’ The nicer teachers, and nicer adults, treated him as an equal. _That_ was what he wanted. He wanted to talk, be treated as if he was like them, not anything less.

That wasn’t a lot to ask for; was it?

Without looking he found himself knocking into a girl walking the opposite way as him. He heard clatter, and looked at the girl like she was the oncoming truck with bright headlights and he was the deer about to be hit. She had short, but not too short, curly hair, and brown eyes. She didn’t look angry, but instead smiled apologetically and went to pick up her stuff.

“Sorry.”

After blinking back into existence he dropped to the floor to help her. “No, I’m sorry I wasn’t looking.”

She had normal text books, books that an underclassmen were given, except when he got to the math book. There, written in big gold letters on a ten, or twenty, year old book was a subject in math he was currently taking. This is where he assumed things. She had to have been an underclassmen, a year younger, and smart enough to be in his math class. She wasn’t pushy and she didn’t seem to be an arrogant underclassmen, as most were.

Without another word he helped her pick up her stuff, get back on her feet, and with a goodbye smile she was gone.

His locker was on the left; near students he couldn’t name. Scott’s locker was a set of lockers down, so it was a bit lonely on his set. The only one he had to see was Kira, but she was mostly with Scott. They never were close, especially after his Nogitsune phase.

He always felt guilty after killing Allison. He could see the way Kira looked at him. She could never reach his eyes and would never cast a second glance his way. She would creep away, slowly, but it’s still creeping away. Every time he was in the room she’d walk away, but no one would notice. She had used her, “mom needs me” line too many times for it to be a coincidence. Just like now; she saw him, grabbed her stuff, and left quickly. Her actions spoke more than words, and that hurt him.

He mournfully grabbed his stuff and headed into his math class. He always hated math. Teachers took it way too seriously and most of the time it wasn’t taught properly. Stiles was a kid on Adderall, some days he could understand and others he wouldn’t— _couldn’t_ —pay attention to his favorite class, forensic science, which was at the end of the day. If there was something Stiles was grateful for was that his math class was in the morning, meaning if he was tired, he could blame it on the schools’ high standards of waking up in the morning.

His mornings were the same with the once vacant blue skies turning bleak and grey. That stain that wasn’t thoroughly washed enough was suddenly getting darker in size but never grew. He always liked the rain. It gave people something to talk about; “Did you see last night’s weather?” It was either going to be a boring rainy night, which helped him study, or a rainy thunderous night, which he would spend all night looking out the window to see where the lightning would strike. Rainy and the daytime was always a good combination, especially now since he was focusing on forensic science.

Whenever it came time to focus he either, A) would not do that or B) he would focus on another class. Today he was going with the latter, opting to get a warning from his teacher for not working in his class.

“Stiles, this is English class.”

Stiles sighed, hid his forensics paper, and ‘paid attention.’ “Sorry, sir.”

Instead of paying attention; he opened his computer. At least there he could pretend to look at the English PowerPoint presentation in one tab, but quickly switch over to other tabs as well. This time he checked his email. He scrolled through college admission emails, daily announcements, and emails he sent to his teachers until he saw one that was unopened. One that was sent by his math teacher this early morning.

In a long drawn out email all Stiles gathered was that he was to meet his math teacher after school so that another student could tutor him. Not that he was particularly busy. If he was it’d be watching crime shows on Netflix or piecing together old Star Wars puzzles because he never got around to finishing them.

He wondered if his tutor was Lydia. So, in a stealthy manner he pulled out his phone, his binder and computer shielding it from the teacher, and texted Lydia. ‘Did Mrs. Tanners ask you to tutor me in math?’

A few seconds later a reply came. ‘Why are you on your phone during class?’

‘Answer the question.’

‘No, but if she did ask me I would’ve told you beforehand. Tell me who is tutoring you once you know who.’

‘I will.’

Stiles flipped his phone over and started working on his computer. Instead of listening to the drone that is his teacher he decides to work on other stuff. He brought his own computer, as the school’s computer is automatically connected, and surveillance, to the school. If the school had taken a look at his web browser history he’d be in jail and put under federal prison.

His safer bet was to use his own, go incognito, and write down the weblinks and information separately. Even his camera was duct taped over. Of course some made fun of him for it but he’s smart enough that the conspiracy theories put out there could be true. 

For the next hour and a half Stiles would sit there, researching, writing, and staring off into space because that’s what he does. He doesn’t listen to the teacher, who knows he’s staring off, but will learn the content on his own time. Whether he learns the content on a rainy night with the window open, or two weeks later right before a big test. Stress and putting things off at the last minute isn’t healthy, but sometimes it gets the job done.

The final bell rang and the students that were once piled in the English classroom were now rushing out the door to get home. Stiles slowly got up and gathered his stuff. At least if he did this slowly he’d have more time to ponder whether or not he wanted to ignore his math teacher or to acknowledge he is failing his math class.

The exit was on his left, but his locker was on his right near his math classroom. Would he, A) he risk the chance of being seen and walk out, B) walk home with his stuff and forget one of those items tomorrow, or C) go to his math class and suffer the acknowledgment that he sucks at math?

Stiles walked right and then took another right into his math classroom.

Mrs. Tanners was a middle-aged woman who was tall and lanky. She had long hair but always wore it in a bun. She had a nice smile, but behind that smile was a woman who knew hell hath no bounds. Despite her lanky frame she could body slam any kid and take down any one of the football players in arm-wrestling. She was strict, sometimes cruel, but she got her point across of who she was and what she was like. You either hated her or hated her there was no other option.

There standing near Mrs.Tanners desk was a girl with short, but not too short, curly brown hair and brown eyes. A backpack hung on her back and her head looking at the ground. She was the girl he had knocked down earlier due to him being an incompetent ass and not looking where he was going. She was short standing next to Mrs. Tanners, and looked like she lacked confidence by how her arms were wrapped around herself. She looked at Stiles and he knew that she remembered him. He showed an apologetic smile, again, and turned to Mrs. Tanners.

“I want to say I’m surprised you came,” Mrs. Tanners noted, “but I am glad you did. It shows initiative that you care.”

He did, but not when it was coming from her mouth. He could have asked Lydia but with the cost of his self-preservation, pride, and self confidence.

“This is Lehua Mannings,” she said and the brown curly haired girl stepped forward, “she’s a year younger than you but is quite smart in advanced math.”

“Hi,” she said softly, extending a hand, “Stiles, right?”

He wasn’t going to ask how she knew his name. He shook her hand, which was calloused and rough (odd, he noted. Stiles thought she’d had healthy skin, but her rough and calloused skin could be from other factors), and smiled, greeting her professionally. “Yeah.”

The greeting was short but their interactions were not. Mrs. Tanners left and Lehua accompanied Stiles to his locker. “I’d like to set up times, if you don’t mind.”

Putting in his combination and opening his locker he replied. “Yeah, sure, since there’s nothing going on and that lacrosse is only after school I have time.” he grabbed his background and slung it over his shoulder. “I have any time from six to seven.”

She nodded. “Okay, six it is.”

She started walking ahead, saying that the conversation was over, but Stiles remembered something. “Wait! Lehua.”

She turned around and mindlessly blinked at him. “Something else?”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah, two things,” Stiles pulled out his phone, “I need your number.”

She looked like she was about to decline his offer until her own lightbulb clicked. “Oh! Yeah, for communication.” Lehua pulled out her phone and they exchanged numbers. “You said two things. What was the other?”

Stiles shuffled his feet. “I,” he hated saying this when it came to learning. He could always blame his disorder for his personality but when it came to learning he apparently was ‘dumb.’ “have a bit of a learning disability? Nothing bad, just your average ADHD, but it, y’know, causes me to lose focus.”

She nodded, soaking in the information. “That’s fine, I can work with that.”

“Really?” Stiles must’ve looked desperate because she let out a sad smile. “Okay, tomorrow at six then?”

“Tomorrow at six,” she smiled before walking away.


	2. II

The next few days were a strain on Stiles. He didn’t expect to come home sore. Coach had told Stiles that he needed to get better not in muscle but reflexes as well, of course if all the previous yelling didn’t get to him before now this would, and told him to go to their local gym. It was mostly abandoned and was empty around when lacrosse was going on. To make sure Stiles was doing his regular sparring and exercise he had a new player, named Víctor, watch over him.

Víctor was quiet, but it wasn’t the shy-type of quiet. He was strong, could punt Stiles like he was a dog, and a bit annoyed. Multiple times throughout his hour of lacrosse practice, in this case something Stiles should be doing outside of lacrosse to get better, Víctor had muttered to himself that he shouldn’t be babysitting a weak player. Stiles knew all of this but didn’t care. He had to keep an eye on Scott somehow, and if it meant he actually had to get better at lacrosse then so be it.

Scott and Stiles were on opposite sides when it came to teachers. Scott got the kind teachers who cared about his well being, and even noticed if Stiles wasn’t there. If Scott wasn’t there one day a teacher would ask why and note that they’re glad he’s better. Meanwhile Stiles got the teachers that couldn’t care less. If Stiles wasn’t there one day his teachers would pile on assignments and wouldn’t bother to catch him up, so he’d be stuck sitting there clueless for the rest of class or ask someone near him for notes.

After lacrosse practice he’d be very sore. His legs were wobbly and he was sweaty from working out. He didn’t know if the exercise was actually helping, making him strong, or if he was simply stagnant. He’d have to take a quick shower, mentally and physically prepare himself, and then invite Lehua into his home.

He only wished for death or the weekend to come along.

“You seem distracted.”

Oh, yeah, he forgot he was with Lydia.

They were currently at an old, run-down playground in the middle of a quiet neighborhood. Lydia and Stiles were sitting in the swings. Lydia was currently holding onto the rusted chains and her head looking at him sideways. The red lipstick that stained her lips were curling into a smile. He was sitting on the swing next to her with his hands in his lap and staring out into the curved road. Cars would pass by every so often but they wouldn’t pay them much mind.

“I’m fine.” he told her.

He didn’t feel fine, but he didn’t feel bad either.

Her smile slowly faded into a concerned look. Stiles groaned and rolled his eyes. That look was something he was all too familiar with. Something that he saw when she knew something was wrong. He couldn’t deny the fact that Lydia was emotionally perceptive. She may not be on par with Stiles, but she knew more about people than he did. She talked to them; he didn’t.

Instead of asking, she swallowed, and looked down.

“Look you don’t have to tell me anything, I won’t force you to, but I know you Stiles. Don’t bottle things up until they explode.”

She was right, in a way. He voices his opinions, says what’s on his mind, but when it comes to himself he completely shuts down. With his anxiety he always felt like a burden of some sort. He should be able to do simple tasks by himself. He didn’t need to share his troubles with anyone because he figured things out on his own. What if those simple tasks weren’t so simple? It was like rock climbing, every step is easy until there’s a step that’s too high up or too far away.

That’s when he’d jump off the wall, knowing there was a soft landing, or he'd jump back down and approach from a different angle. He was stubborn and that caused setbacks. When there were obvious moments he’d need help Stiles would take it upon himself to do it himself. Most of the time he’d get there, but when he would need help it would be too late. That was the setback; himself.

“You’re right,” he finally said, “but things have only begun. It’s not like I’m stuck just yet.”

Lydia looked at Stiles once again with that same concerning look. “But when you  _ do _ get stuck then won’t it be too late?”

He wanted to cut her off then, but he let her speak. He wanted to hear her out. He knew within himself that he was broken in a way. With his mom gone and his dad being the sheriff he’s left to his own devices. He has no sense of control over himself and then when he’d let go when he’s gone too far. Before that happens Stiles can, most of the time, get out of it with wits on his side.

But even then lady luck has a limit.

He knew this situation wasn’t like fighting werewolves or fighting another version of himself. He was fighting himself. He was fighting the one person he knew but didn’t. Stiles would have to figure it out on his own because that’s who he was. He was reliable, smart, and, most importantly, put together. If anyone knew how to get out of a sticky situation it was him.

“I’ll burn that bridge when I get to it.”

“That’s unhealthy, Stiles.” Lydia scolded. “Please…”

“I can handle this, Lydia,” he told her. Stiles stood up and looked out onto the empty road. “It’s too early to make an assumption on how things are going to go.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about.”

“Then what are you talking about?”

She stood up as well and rocked back and forth on her heels. “You want something to happen. This is all too normal for you, isn’t it?”

Mundane was a way to word it. His own head was trying to make things up and cause more anxiety to fester up. At least then he’d have something to look forward to. Every little thing started to pique his interest, and he started spacing out a lot more. With Lehua there to help him with math he still couldn’t stop thinking of what else might be lurking around the corner.

His mind went to dark places when he was stir crazy. He was always checking the newspaper, online sites, anything and everything to latch onto. He didn’t want to start trouble, but he was so close to the edge of the cliff. He could hurl himself off, but there was the fearful unknown he didn’t know of. So he stood there, breath caught in his throat, and his feet planted there on the edge, but nothing told him to leave.

“No?” he questioned sarcastically, scratching the back of his neck.

She closed her eyes and sighed, her head dropping slightly. “You don’t have to say more. I already know you do.”

For once he wanted to interrupt her.

“But as I said before,” she paused, “you don’t have to tell me. Just…just wait a bit longer. We’re in Beacon Hills, nothing is ever quiet anymore.”

They separated and Stiles was once again up against a losing fight with his own conscience. His own morals of wanting something exciting, yet knowing it was at the cost of his sanity, was something that weighed on his mind.

When he was back at home he looked through an abandoned box that was in the corner of his closet. He hadn’t opened it in years, but now he slowly and carefully opened it. The tape was broken and dirty, and some of the contents were dusty, but at the bottom Stiles pulled out a picture frame. A woman was smiling, holding a baby boy, and a man had his arm wrapped around her. 

The woman was beautiful. She had long dark brown hair with dark brown eyes. She had crows feet showing, and her arms were wrapped tightly around the little boy. It was quiet, serene, peaceful to look at. It was the last time Stiles ever felt normal. The last time his mom was actually okay.

The day his mom was diagnosed with dementia she started falling and forgetting more frequently. Since the dementia caused anger issues she became more aggressive. All Stiles could do was watch from the back seat. At least with his dad in the passenger seat he could control Stiles’ mom.

She’d yell, kick, scream everything that was in her jumbled mind. She blamed the world, herself, Stiles’ dad, and even Stiles himself. Multiple times she’d be seen standing on top of a building, and multiple times it was up to Stiles’ dad to save her. Stiles was wishing for something to happen, maybe that was the cause of his mom’s dementia. It was all because he couldn’t sit, and wait just like everyone else. He was a high maintenance child that always needed something to happen.

In some way or another something was always his fault.

The doorbell rang. “Stiles?”

The sun was low when he was with Lydia, but now it was dark outside, so when he looked at the time it corresponded with the current season. It was already in the later half of the year so the sun was down and darkness came early. The clock chimed six and the door bell was ringing.

Lehua.

He quickly ran downstairs to open the door. “Yeah, sorry, I was spacing out. Please tell me you weren’t standing out here long.”

She shook her head. “No, about five minutes.”

Five minutes he could’ve been answering the door and not wallowing in a past that can’t be changed.

He stared blankly into space not noticing her raising an eyebrow and ducking into his home. As if Zeus himself was pulling him from the astral plane, Stiles wildly turned around before blurting out. “I know you’re here to tutor me, but have you eaten anything?”

Lehua was getting settled in the living room, setting down her messenger bag and pulling out her math textbook. “I actually haven’t eaten anything. You have anything in mind?”

There’s nothing ever to eat there except for basic sandwiches and…

Macaroni and Cheese.

Unless Lehua was allergic to cheese then there was  _ nothing _ he could feed her. The most that Stiles and his dad had were ham and almost molding bread. They never went out often, and more often than not they went out for fast food. Unhealthy, yes, but Stiles was more than willing to get a greasy burger if it meant not going to the grocery store. At least with this, almost lifetime shelf life, mac ‘n cheese he was able to whip up a meal.

“Are you allergic to cheese? Or lactose intolerant?”

“No,” she answered, “want me to help?”

No, he said in his head. He was perfectly capable of boiling water, pouring in the macaroni, and then mixing in the cheese. It was easy; right? His mom taught him how to cook simple things; BLT’s, soup, pies, and a few complex things. He didn’t like cooking at all, and for a while he was cooking by himself.

“Yeah, sure.”

She seemed to smile, genuinely, liking the confirmation that she was needed. That was what he thought. He could never confirm nor deny what type of person Lehua was behind her eyes. He had only seen her in the hallways or in his own home. She was in places where she had to act nice, so he wanted to know how she was outside of that.

“So, when you’re not here, where are you?”

Stupid conversation starter, he thought, but it was the best he could muster up. She filled up the measuring cup while Stiles turned on the stove and got out the pot.

“Studying,” she answered simply, “how else can I keep up my grades?” Ouch. Somehow noticing his discomfort Lehua apologized. “I didn’t mean it like that. I’m just constantly studying. It’s the only time I have peace and quiet until my brother comes home.”

She poured in the water, which filled the pot to a third full. Stiles blinked trying to think of what she meant, but asked, “What do you mean by that?”

“My brother and I are your average siblings. Fighting, sibling love, even if it is rough sometimes. He’s strict, considering he’s the only one taking care of me, and so when he comes home from lacrosse practice he teaches me self-defense.”

“Lacrosse?” Stiles’ interest was piqued, again. “Who is he?”

“You play?” she eyed him up and down. “Ah, you must be ‘little shit’.”

“Excuse me?”

Victor. He didn’t have to ask who, he knew. It was no wonder Victor was strict to Stiles. He thought Stiles was a little shit. Considering he was limp and as equally unfit Stiles understood why Victor was, as Lehua put it, rough. Victor was always like that, from what Stiles had heard from numerous rumors in the hallway. Now hearing it from someone who sees him outside of school, his sister, Stiles knew how to get around Victor.

You don’t; he gets around you.

Stiles weakly let out an oh, before waiting for the water to boil. “At least I know what he thinks of me now.”

“Don’t take it too seriously,” Lehua reassured, “he’s like that to everyone. You should bulk up though?”

“I am the size of a chihuahua, they don’t grow any bigger than that.”

Lehua laughed, not fake giggly laughing, but a deep heart-felt laugh. Her eyes crinkled which turned into crows feet, her lips thinned, and a big crease on her dimples showed through. She wasn’t faking any emotion, and if she was she was doing a damn good job of it. Stiles let himself laugh along to ease his emotions.

It felt nice. The tension in his shoulders easing and his stiff posture loosening helped in easing his nerves. The constant rollercoaster—no, Ferris wheel—of emotions seemed to come to a halt. A rollercoaster wasn’t linear, but a Ferris Wheel was. Going through the same slow motions of backwards and never forwards. Now, though, it seemed to stop, just for a brief moment to let Stiles enjoy the high view.

He found himself enjoying her smile, and not just her physical appearance but her in general. She was easy-going. She didn’t give you an island to take care of when you have your own to take care of. She didn’t vent, but he would listen to her. He wanted to help her if he could. Help ease her of the anxieties he knows all too well.

The stove beeped annoyingly and Lehua turned off the stove. The smell of the macaroni and cheese filled through the air. He swore he felt his stomach churn in hunger.

“Alright I think it’s done,” Lehua said stirring the meal, “shall we get to work?”

Time had passed and it was six forty-five. The macaroni and cheese was eaten and Stiles’ brain was racked with math formulas. He knew the information being given to him; Lehua was more of a summary of the math class than teaching him hard content. He wasn’t stupid, he knew that, but the trouble he was having in this particular class was astounding.

“You seem to understand the content…” Lehua paused. “Why do you need me?”

“I think,” he hypothesized, “it doesn’t stick.”

“Then wouldn’t you study more? I don’t want to sound rude…”

“No, no, it’s fine,” not really he was a little hurt, “think of this as more of a study partner thing. I just need a little guidance cause my brain hates me apparently.”

A knock came to Stiles’ front door. Lehua looked to Stiles, but he shrugged in response. His dad doesn’t come home until late, and he wasn’t expecting any company this late. The sun was nowhere to be seen and Stiles didn’t live on a busy street. His neighbors weren’t far and wide, but they weren’t the most sociable either.

Stiles cautiously stood up, and went to the door. His door didn’t have a peephole, and if he were to look from the side windows, that had a complete view of the front door, he would be seen too easily. It was better for him to remember the trusty metal bat near the front door. His dad always told him metal was better than wood; even if metal did have a tendency to kill more than wood.

He opened the door to see his dad, panting and sweat dripping down his face. He stared blankly before turning to Lehua. “I think we should stop here.”

She nodded, quietly gathering her stuff and left quickly. Stiles quickly cleaned up the living room, helped his dad in, and asked him. “Why do you look worn down?”

His dad set a folder on the living room table. Stiles looked at his dad for confirmation, and he nodded. “I shouldn’t go to you,” his dad stated plainly while Stiles opened the folder. Each picture was similar, but each was a different girl cut up in similar ways, “but I think this is supernatural.”


	3. III

His dad’s sudden statement stayed in Stiles’ mind, even three days later he found himself up at night. The first thing he did was go to Derek. Derek was...to say the least apathetic in a way. He says he doesn’t care and turns his back on the world but in the end he does care. In Derek’s own pride-filled way he does care.

So when Derek told Stiles to stay out of it he understood. Derek didn’t want Stiles getting hurt, Derek was a hereditary werewolf and Stiles was, well, a human. He was better off staying at home and watching than getting into any more trouble. With Stiles being susceptible to anything and everything supernatural Derek had to do what he thought was best.

Even if Stiles didn’t like it, and he didn’t like what Derek thought.

So he laid awake in the early hours of the morning, before school and before his dad went to work, researching and doing anything to figure out things for himself. He couldn’t be left in the dark because he wouldn't allow that to happen. He was done being babied around, being useless because he was human. Stiles would show people what it was to be human.

“Stiles.”

Caught again.

He turned around, slowly as to prolong his scolding, and turned off his computer. He smiled, “Yes?”

Derek sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, and shutting his eyes. “I thought—“

“I know,” Stiles avoided eye contact. Derek blinked, trying to figure out what to do next, and then sat down on Stiles’ bed.

“What is it?”

Stiles raised an eyebrow, finally meeting Derek’s eye. Derek may have been apathetic but he wasn’t heartless. The emotion he showed was minimal, but important. Derek’s eyebrows were drawn together and up, in most cases that showed fear, but in this case it showed concern. His hands were intertwined with each other, and Derek had the most earnest face Stiles had ever seen.

“Why do you want to help? What do you want out of it?”

Derek was actually being genuine and not an asshole.

"What do you mean?" Stiles questioned, "If you mean what am I getting out of this; then nothing. I do want to help, but that's not what I'm trying to do. I just want to prove I am of use."

"Stiles...you're human," Stiles could already feel himself getting angry, "your dad is trying to keep you out of harm's way. You're susceptible to a lot of things."

"Do you not trust me?" Stiles asked. Derek hesitated; Derek doesn't hesitate. "Why do you not trust me?"

His voice cracked and his anger festered inside. He couldn't find himself to face Derek anymore and he looked down, avoiding eye contact at all costs. He couldn't face the person that told him he was practically useless. He wanted to yell, cry, and curse at Derek for thinking such a thing. He could only ask one thing;

"Was it because of the Nogitsune?"

"As I said, you are human. You don't have that level of protection that werewolves or other supernatural creatures have."

"Get out."

Stiles didn't look at Derek. He put his head in his hands to hide his tears. Is this what people thought of him? A simple human who can't even get involved? Always sitting out of the game and never brought out to play. His spirit and his usefulness dwindled down to nothing, the grinding of chalk to the point it turned into dust.

He could hear Derek's closed mouth sigh and hear his footsteps fleeting. He didn't bother to raise his head even after Derek left. He stayed there, head in his hands, and crying. The world closed in on him and he had nowhere to go. He was finally onto something, even if his board was only filled up with red yarn, but now he was stuck.

He'd have to do things on his own.

He quit pitying himself, wiped his eyes dry, and saved the documents on his computer to somewhere private. Hopefully no one was smarter than him, or Danny, when accessing his computer. Everyone either knew the basic level of handling a computer, or they didn't know anything about computers at all. The only person who knew how to enter Stiles computer was himself, and if anyone tampered with it he'd know.

So the next morning when he entered school he wasn't occupied with whatever his History teacher was saying, but rather eavesdropping on students, teachers, and staff that talked in general. It was better to pretend to pay attention without his computer than risk it getting taken away. Not only would they try to get in, but his dad was only a phone call away. His dad didn't have time to deal with his rebellion anyway, so it was better to work undercover.

Stiles was a relatively good student anyway. He got his work done and had peak grades, almost as good as Lydia's. The only reason he had Lehua as a tutor was the simple fact he knew his math teacher was curving his grades. He didn't particularly like her, but he tolerated her enough to know he didn't deserve the curving. At most he'd be at an eighty-five, which for most is a good grade anyway, but for him it wasn't good enough. If he wanted to get into the Bureau he'd have to try harder than that.

That was also the reason he was trying harder in lacrosse. The agency is a tough job and not always sitting down at a desk doing paperwork. A physical assessment was one of the requirements for the agency and they wouldn't "curve" that. Stiles was trying his best even if it hurt him to go to bed every night. At least Victor stopped with the rude insults, but rather gave some offhanded tips. It wasn't a conversation, much rather one-liners, but at least Stiles wasn't getting berated anymore.

His eyes snapped to two girls whispering a couple seats in front of him.

"Did you hear about that girl that got murdered?"

"Yeah, I heard there was a mark on her neck. Probably some gang again. Do you know who she was?"

"Yeah, Georgina Muller," the other girl commented, "she was a senior too. Had her whole life planned ahead of her."

Georgina was a cheerleader in the Beacon Hills Cheerleading Team. Lydia described her as nice, sweet, and a good role model. She had good grades, top of her senior class, and was fit. She was an all-rounded individual with people, herself, and life. People always used her as an example when talking about life, "Oh look, Georgina Muller has her life figured out why don't you?" maybe not a good thing to say, but when compared her feats were like no other.

"Maybe good girl turned bad," one of the two girls said.

"She doesn't look the type though..."

"Oh come on," the girl egged the other one on, "good girl, good grades, top of her graduating class...she probably was having fun and things got rough."

"I don't think she'd like you talking about her like that," Stiles butted in, "it's not good to disrespect the dead."

The first girl rolled her eyes at Stiles, which he took little offense to. "Oh come on. You probably know something we don't anyway."

"I don't," he plainly told her, "and I don't intend on finding out either."

Before the girls could ask any questions the bell rang, and Stiles got the hell out of Dodge. He needed time to think of a plan to find a way to get more information about the case. Every second that went by was a second he could be spending time figuring things out. He couldn't do it all from his computer, so he started paying attention to his dad's schedule. Maybe there would be a day he was gone and he could do  _ something _ .

One day in the middle of the night, his dad in deep sleep, he texted Scott and Lehua. Not in the same chatroom, they didn't know each other, but maybe this was a good chance for him to meet her. Scott answered Stiles' "Are you awake" text with a 'what tf do u want at 12 am.' and Lehua answered with, 'Yes, do you need something?' One of these was not like any other...

Stiles told them both to meet him at the Sheriff's office, which Lehua asked, 'Why there?'

'My dad works there, no worries.'

'Oh, alright.'

Scott didn't have to ask. He'd take time to break into a school (which he has done multiple times) just to get his backpack because he forgot it (which he has also done.) He was a werewolf, and if anyone knows most dogs are impulsive and hyperactive.

Maybe Stiles' fursona was a werewolf.

"Gah," Stiles hit his own head as he drove to the office, "stop thinking things, Stiles."

It was pitch dark when he got to the police station. It was a small station, more of your average small town type station, so windows were an absolute necessity. One almost in every room, including the jail cells. The minimal times Stiles had ever gone to the station he never saw any security cameras and didn't see any now. He wasn't a hacker by any means, but he did know how to disable security cameras.

There waiting in the bushes were Lehua and Scott, who actively questioned Stiles. "Who's that?"

Stiles rubbed the back of his neck, shrugged his shoulders up, and avoided eye contact. "Lehua meet Scott, Scott meet Lehua."

"Why did you want us here?" Lehua asked.

"Who exactly is she?" Scott said, pointing to Lehua.

"One, Lehua is a friend." Stiles shrugged awkwardly again. Lehua didn't bother to correct him. "Two, I need to look at files from the case with Georgina."

"I thought Derek-" Scott started to scowl, until he looked at Lehua, and stopped himself, "Fine. I'm down for breaking in. Why ask her though?"

Stiles looked at Lehua, who was awkwardly standing there, her arms behind her and shivering a bit in the cold. "I thought it'd be a good bonding experience?"

Scott didn't believe him.

"Okay, she's good at fighting."

"So am I!" Scott proclaimed.

"Not without steroids." Stiles rolled his eyes. How else was he supposed to explain Scott's eyes turning into a different colour. Blue was acceptable, with Derek's eyes he could hide it as contacts, but red or yellow is harder to explain. Scott's mouth hung open and his eyebrows narrowed slightly. "Let's just go inside."

Stiles opened the door, except he didn't. The door did move but it was locked in place and there was no way of getting in. Stiles couldn't just go in his dad's room to steal the keys, and if he did his dad would know. His dad has a keen sense when it comes to his workplace, it was just a risk coming here; a sense of violation. Thankfully the doors weren't electric, or modern, so when they would break in through the front then no alarm would go off.

"Right," Stiles huffed, "locked."

"Instead of going through the front why don't we go through the room where the files are? That way we're not leaving too much of an open track." Lehua suggested. "I can break in through windows."

Stiles blinked dismissably. "I don't know if I should be scared or hypocritical," Stiles commented, "but you're right."

"You didn't really think this through did you?" Lehua teased as Scott and Stiles made their way to his dad's office. "Is this the place?"

"Wouldn't be in the file room?" Scott asked. "It sounds more reasonable for it to be there."

"Dad doesn't leave things lying around, but he doesn't want to get up and go to that room every time he needs the file, so he leaves it in his office in a locked cabinet."

“Do you know which one?” Stiles shook his head, and Scott sighed deeply. “Have you thought this out at  _ all _ ?”

“To an extent,” which was partially true.

Stiles knew that once he had the folder and could study it, along with pictures he’d be taking on his phone, he could further along the investigation. Stiles could see things that the others couldn’t. Even without supernatural abilities or anything special Stiles could help in some way, shape, or form. He was still a part of Scott’s pack, meaning he could still help out, and Scott wouldn’t tell Stiles to stop.

Would he?

Scott put a hand on Stiles’ shoulder; Stiles didn’t bother to turn around. “Why are you doing this?”

“I wanna help,” he told him plainly. “And no one is letting me.”

“And why do you think we want to keep you away?”

_ We _ .

Stiles’ worst fears had come true.

“Don’t—“ Stiles choked, he turned around to hold his hands up as a wall, “Don’t you dare reiterate what Derek told me.”

“Derek talked to you?”

“Yeah,” Stiles irritatedly said, “and don't lie to me.”

“Lie to you about what?”

“You’re afraid of me because of the—“

“I’m not afraid of you, Stiles!”

It was a roar of some kind. Unnatural and loud; a knife slicing through thick air. There was no anger in that roar though. No built up anger or pent-up frustration but pure confusion and pity. Stiles could see that in Scott’s eyes as well; the sad puppy dog eyes that he inherited from his werewolf genes, and the natural worry across his face.

Scott was telling the truth.

“Then why am I always pushed to the side?” Stiles muttered to himself knowing Scott could hear. “Why? I can’t help that I’m human.”

“And that isn’t your fault,” Scott told him, “but I won’t let you get yourself into a situation you can’t handle. Sometimes you can’t handle stuff without—“

“Supernatural abilities,” Stiles finished for him. “Yeah, got it.”

“You guys done talking nonsense?” Lehua asked impatiently. “I’ve almost got the window open.”

Stiles turned back around, wiped his eyes, and went back to focusing on the window. He could hear Scott’s quiet, “Stiles...Stiles!” but opted to ignore it. He didn’t want to talk at the moment. In fact he never wanted to bring it up again; Stiles wanted to go on his little merry way and go through with his plan with no objections.

But of course there are always objections.

“It usually doesn’t take long to break in through a window,” Lehua explained as the boys approached, “usually breaking it does the trick, but considering this is a police station I opted to take the scenic route.”

“Is it all the way open?” Stiles asked her. He was willing to bet it wouldn’t open all the way.

“It’s a tight fit,” she said while opening it, “but we all can get through.”

“Maybe you can but have you noticed I am a bit...well,” Scott pointed to his arms and body. “Bulky.”

“You can be lookout while Stiles and I find the files.”

Scott glanced at Stiles, who didn't look at him, then at Lehua and nodded. "I have a keen sense of hearing."

Stiles snorted. It was funny knowing that Scott was a werewolf and that they could joke openly, like an inside joke that only they knew. Even as a human he knew the ins and outs of the supernatural world. He could look, watch, but never really interact the same way as the others could. For once, though, it felt nice to be in control of a situation, even if it wasn't total control. He was the one with the reigns, but would the horse cooperate?

It was awkward crawling in. First Lehua went in, demonstrating to Stiles how to. The first step was to straddle the window sill, then pull the leg that wasn't inside in, and finally do some flexible thing that Stiles can't do. With all the lacrosse training with Victor it didn't train him for breaking and entering. By the final step Stiles heard a crack in his back, and he dropped to the floor from the window sill. It wasn't high up, so he knew he didn't break anything, but it did hurt.

"Are you okay?" Lehua crouched by Stiles' side. "Can you stand?"

Groaning, and cracking his back, Stiles slowly sat up and grabbed onto his dad's chair helping him get on balance. "Yeah. It hurt like hell though."

Stiles should do yoga after this case is all done.

The filing cabinets were surprisingly easy to get into. They didn't have a key to open, and all it took to open was a single push and pull. Finally they found the current case files. Some were still investigating from weeks ago and some months. He scanned through the files until he found the most recent date, saw the case name, and pulled it out. He opened the file, looking at the mangled body of Georgina Muller. He looked at her neck, where the girls said a mark was, and saw it. The marking that looked like an ancient rune of some sort. Flipping through the file once more was the first victim; Jane Doe. An unnamed hiker in the area at the time of her disappearance, found only days later with the same mark on her neck.

His dad didn't tell him jack about the investigation, just told him to get Deaton and not to get involved. That didn't stop Stiles though. Through online searches, newspapers, and tv reports he found out only what others did. He begged his dad to tell him something since he wasn't being told anything, but his dad turned around and ignored him. The best way to ignore an ADHD child is to let them fester on their own.

"That doesn't look like a gang symbol," Lehua mentioned, "more runic."

"You know what it means?" Stiles asked.

"Yeah, it's from the Norse runic system. If I'm correct it means 'god,' but many runes mean god, or refer to a god. I'd have to look it up to see which god this rune is referring to."

"Does it matter which god?"

"Let's see," Lehua tapped her chin, "Odin was the All-father who sought nothing but knowledge; Thor, the son of Odin, was the god of lightning and what-not, but also has a lot of strength; Tyr was the god of war but also the lawgiver of them; and lastly Freyr was the god of peace, fertility, and whatnot. Of course there is more to the gods than just that, but that's what I can remember at the moment."

"So are any of the runes 'bad'?" Stiles air quoted.

"All the gods can be bad. Odin, I assume, would be the worst. Since he is smart and very knowledgeable he knows how to make people suffer."

"And why not Tyr?" Stiles asked, "Isn't he the god of war?"

"Yeah," she nodded, "but he didn't bind Loki to the stone to wait until Ragnarok."

"Then who did?"

"Why of course, Odin did."

**Author's Note:**

> You can reach me here or at @lynnthegarbagebin (or @catastropheofassortments) on Tumblr.


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